


After Baskerville

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Urban Fantasy, Werewolf John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: John is changed after Baskerville, and something prowls the streets of London
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 47
Kudos: 90
Collections: Spooky Johnlock Collection





	1. Chapter 1

When all was said and done at Baskerville, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade returned home. Sherlock knew that things had changed between himself and John, but he couldn't quite put words to the difference.

And something had changed in John, too, he was certain of it. What that change was, however, was not immediately clear.

John was still upset by some of the things Sherlock had done, which, to his surprise, Sherlock felt guilty about. The few times John had coaxed him to bed had stopped and the dance that seemed to be leading them towards further intimacy was halted.

Sherlock had apologized the best he could, but things were still strained. He was rather surprised, when, two weeks after getting back, John left one evening. While sometimes John needed to get out or get away, he'd rarely stayed all night unless he was in some sort of danger.

When he did not return, Sherlock paced for a while before breaking down and texting Mycroft at four in the morning. Mycroft had assured him that John was not in danger, but refused to give any more details, other than telling him he needed to speak with John.

Sherlock had dozed off on the sofa when John returned just after dawn. Sherlock was awake in an instant. John started, as if he'd not expected to find Sherlock up and waiting for him. Waiting and worried.

"Are you alright?" asked Sherlock, noticing something in John's eyes. His clothes were in disarray, but he didn't appear to have gotten into any sort of physical altercation.

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Does it matter?" he said at last.

Sherlock felt stung, but knew he deserved it. "It matters very much to me," he said quietly.

John blinked a few times, then focused on Sherlock, cocking his head as he studied his face. "You mean that," he said.

"I do," admitted Sherlock. He scrubbed his hands through his hair. "I am not used to caring about the feelings and thoughts of others," he said. "I don't have friends, John, as I said. But you..."

Sighing, John walked over and sat down next to him on the sofa. "Something happened at Baskerville," he said softly.

"You mean more than what I saw," said Sherlock.

"Yeah," said John. "I think I got injected with something." His voice was soft and uncertain, not at all the way he usually spoke and acted.

Sherlock bit back a wave of anger. After all, he'd experimented on John himself from time to time, but never with anything that would permanently alter or harm him. But whatever had happened this time, it had clearly been different.

John wasn't looking at him and clearly he hadn't noticed Sherlock's reaction. "It was a full moon last night," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft said you weren't in danger."

John did raise his head at that. "You called Mycroft?"

"You didn't come home. I had to be sure you were safe." Sherlock looked away from his eyes, as if afraid of revealing too much.

John swallowed and reached out to touch his hand. "I changed last night."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

John stood up and started pacing. "It sounds mad," he said.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me," said Sherlock.

"I think I turned into a werewolf," said John at last, stopping at looking at Sherlock, eyes clearly pleading with him to believe him.

Sherlock stared at him a moment. "Alright," he said, not wanting John to run.

"You don't believe me," said John, looking away again.

"I want to," said Sherlock.

John scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Next full moon, I want you to come with me."

"I will," promised Sherlock.

John nodded. "I'm going to bed," he said softly, leaving Sherlock alone in the living room, wondering what on earth had happened to his friend.

**

For the next few weeks, Sherlock learned all he could of werewolf lore in between cases. Mycroft was being suspiciously un-annoying and un-meddling, but that wasn't his main concern at the moment.

John was holding himself apart from Sherlock, but perhaps it was only this change. Sherlock found himself hoping that whenever this was resolved quickly, so they could find an equilibrium again.

**

Finally the day arrived. Lestrade showed up in the afternoon with a case but Sherlock told him they were much too busy at the moment. He looked surprised, then shrugged. "Alright, but if you find the time, let me know."

John had been silent while Lestrade was there, but he turned to Sherlock once he left. "Really?"

"It's the full moon tonight, and I promised you," said Sherlock.

John gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

"Welcome," said Sherlock, walking over to pick up his violin, feeling anxious about what would happen.

As dusk fell, John nudged Sherlock and headed for the door, not bothering with a coat. Sherlock fell into step beside him as they walked to the park. Sherlock noticed a few other people lingering about as if they were waiting for something.

He didn't have long to wait. Night fell and the moon started to rise. Without saying anything, John headed deeper into the park. Sherlock followed, but found it difficult to keep up.

John suddenly stopped and turned back towards Sherlock. His features were starting to change, becoming more wolf-like. "Stay here," growled John, with some effort, before turning away again and loping into the shadows.

Sherlock knew he'd said such a thing for his safety, but he could hardly let John face whatever this was alone. He owed the man that much, at least.

Moving quiet and careful as he could, John approached the shadows. He could hear multiple people moving about in the darkness. Some primal instinct had the hair on the back of his neck standing up, but he pushed past the fear and kept going.

Suddenly a large someone grabbed his arm, hand clapping over his mouth before he could shout. He found himself dragged into a gathering of creatures. Werewolves, like John had said.

"Interloper," hissed the one who had grabbed him.

John, recognizable by the scar on his shoulder, stepped forward. "He's with me," he said.

"You brought a human here?" asked the one holding him.

"He's my friend," said John. “He's trustworthy.”

"We should make you change him," said the other werewolf. “That would buy his silence.”

Sherlock knew he should be terrified, but John was here.

John stepped closer. "Julia, he's mine."

She snarled, but shoved Sherlock at John. "If he betrays us, I will hunt you down."

Sherlock landed on his knees. In this form John was taller and broader than himself. His features were more wolf-like, though he stood on two feet. His fur was tan-silver but the eyes were the same steel blue. He truly looked like something out of nightmares and legend. Clumsily, he offered a paw to Sherlock, and then pushed him behind him.

For once in his life, Sherlock knew to stay quiet. He listened as the half-dozen werewolves spoke. He wondered where the others had come from. Surely they couldn't all have been turned by Baskerville. Perhaps John could tell him something more when this was over. Or Mycroft. It seemed he knew more than he let on, but that was true of most things.

Suddenly, as if summoned by Sherlock's thoughts, Mycroft himself strode into the circle in his usual suit.

"You're late," hissed Julia.

"Unforeseen delays," said Mycroft smoothly, clearly unsurprised and unconcerned by his surroundings. He glanced at Sherlock, then turned his attention back to Julia.

Sherlock sat quietly in John's shadow and listened as Mycroft and Julia talked about plans and schemes with some of the others speaking now and again. Sherlock had no idea what most of it was about, but no doubt that was by design.

At last, sometime in the small hours of the morning, Mycroft gave Julia a small bow. "Thank you," he said politely. 

"Take that other human when you go. He's your kin, isn't he?"

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock. "He is indeed. Come along, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up at John. John gave him an encouraging nod. Mind full of curiosity, he hurried to catch up to Mycroft as he walked away.

Once they were out of the shadow of the trees, Sherlock looked back, but he couldn't see anything but darkness.

"That place is hidden," said Mycroft, as casually as if he were talking about a tube stop.

"That doesn't make sense," muttered Sherlock.

"Neither does a pack of werewolves in the middle of London, yet here we are," said Mycroft.

"What happened to John?"

"Ah," said Mycroft, glancing up at the night sky. "There are any number of experiments going on at Baskerville. Those with the condition of lycanthropy want to know more. I didn't know he'd been changed until after you'd returned to London."

"Is there any way to undo it?" asked Sherlock.

"No, or at least, not as of yet." Mycroft glanced over at him. "There are many strange things in London and more outside the city boundaries.

Sherlock looked at him. Mycroft was completely serious. "Curious," he muttered.

"Surely you've noticed things from time to time. But usually there is something of a glimmer to those unusual things. You think you saw a shadow, or it was just a dream."

"What happens to John, now?" asked Sherlock.

"He's been accepted to the pack. I spoke with them when I learned of his condition. On the night of a full moon he'll be drawn to them, but otherwise, things will continue as they have. He's still John Watson, but there is a bit more to him."

"What about silver, things like that?" asked Sherlock.

"Ah, that might cause him some trouble," agreed Mycroft, "but as far as I know, they only change on the night of the full moon. The rest of the time, they're ordinary people with ordinary lives and jobs. Sometimes they marry and have children and their children inherit the condition. But there are other ways to turn a person."

Mycroft led the way out of the park, back towards 221B. Sherlock took one more look back at the park, for a moment thinking he saw odd lights before it was back to normal. When he looked at Mycroft, his brother had a soft, sad smile, something regretful in his eyes.

"There's no blaming you for this, is there?" asked Sherlock.

"You're the one who infiltrated Baskerville with my credentials," shrugged Mycroft.

By now they were at the steps. Sherlock hesitated, then looked at Mycroft again. "Want to come up for some tea?" he asked.

"I'd be delighted," said Mycroft.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time John came back around dawn, Mycroft had gone home. John looked tired and wrung out. 

"Let me run you a bath," said Sherlock, getting to his feet.

John nodded. "Alright. So, you don't think I'm crazy?"

"No, Mycroft explained a few things to me," said Sherlock. "I.. I am sorry this happened to you. I never intended..."

"I know, I know," said John, waving off his concern. "What's done is done."

Sherlock nodded and went to the en suite, still feeling guilty and worried after what Mycroft had told him.

John was still in the bath a short time later when Lestrade again appeared on their doorstep. "I've got another one," he said with a sigh.

"Similar to why you came yesterday?"

Lestrade nodded. "It's very strange. Are you still busy?"

"John is in the..."

"I'm here," said John, coming into the front room, dressed save for socks and shoes, which he reached for.

"Right," said Lestrade, looking between them. "There have been bodies found four of the last seven mornings, all of them similar, nothing in common that we can find. I'd like you to come look at the one from this morning."

Sherlock walked over and picked up John's jacket as he finished tying his shoes. "We'll come," he said.

"Right." Lestrade handed Sherlock the address. "I know you don't want to go in my car. Be there quick as you can, will you?"

Sherlock nodded and listened to him leave as he watched John pull on his jacket, then reached for his own.

The body was near the river. Sherlock looked around. It was an isolated spot and clearly the man had been living rough, bt his body was twisted in an unnatural way that looked impossible to achieve by any normal human means.

"Yeah," said Lestrade as they approached, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

John frowned as he moved closer. Sherlock observed that he was sniffing the air and wondered if John realized he was doing it.

"Broken femur?" asked Sherlock.

Lestrade nodded. "I've never seen a body like this, well up until last week. Now I've seen four, though this was the most damaged one we've found. Obviously the injuries were a big part of death, but no cameras around any of the bodies, no reports of any shouting or anything. This one was found by an unlucky jogger this morning."

Seems to be drained of blood," said John quietly as he crouched by the body.

Sherlock's mind flicked to vampires, but he doubted they'd do this to a body they were drinking from. Though after last night, he supposed it wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

"Yeah," agreed Lestrade to John's comment. "Though obviously, he lost a lot of blood anyway."

"And you say the other three bodies are in similar conditions?" said Sherlock.

"You're welcome to come look at them. We've got no leads," said Lestrade.

"We will," said Sherlock.

**

By the time they got home that afternoon, they still had no easy answers. Sherlock could see how tired John was and encouraged him to go take a nap, then opened up the nearest computer and got to work researching. He'd never had to take into account an actual supernatural possibility before and it was all very strange to do so.

After a while, he gave up and stretched, walking towards his bedroom. They'd be out that night and so he should probably get a little sleep himself.

To his surprise, John was curled up in his bed. Sherlock felt his heart ache. Uncertain if he should bother him, Sherlock toed off his shoes and slipped into bed, laying on his back, aware of John only inches away.

Grumbling a bit, John rolled over to face him, reaching out to touch his hand. "There's no point blaming yourself," he said quietly.

"I brought you there," said Sherlock.

"And I went willingly," answered John. "Trust me, I know a few things about guilt. And you aren't going to change anything by wallowing in it. What's done is done."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. "We'll be going out tonight. Whatever this is, I suspect it doesn't move in daylight."

"I think you're right. I'm still learning about all of this too."

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "We can learn together."

John shifted closer to him and they fell asleep together, worry still gathered like storm clouds at the edge of Sherlock's mind.

**

After dinner they headed out into the city. Sherlock wasn't quite sure where to start, so they went to a quiet spot near the river. The dark water looked foreboding and treacherous.

"You don't think this is a man we're dealing with," said John.

"Not this time, no," answered Sherlock. "A human couldn't have done those things to those bodies."

John nodded and looked around. Sherlock wondered what he was seeing in the shadows. He had a feeling in these matters John could see a lot more now than he could.

A cold wind a light fog came off the river after a little while. John raised his head like a hound catching a scent. "This way," he said, taking off.

It was odd to be the one chasing, not leading, but Sherlock trusted John with his life.

They darted down one street, then another. The fog was growing thicker and Sherlock nearly lost sight of John at one point, but then John came to a halt so quickly that Sherlock nearly collided with him.

Something was moving in the fog. The street lights flickered and dimmed and that primeval sense of danger was again making the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck stand on end.

John pulled his gun, though Sherlock had a feeling it wouldn't be of much use against the thing in the fog. For a few long moments they stood, watching the shape. The smell of river water drifted towards them, but in a way that seemed thicker and older, like the very scent was leaving a film behind it.

The figure paused for a moment, then started moving towards them. Sherlock wanted to run, but he found himself frozen in place, staring, heart hammering in his chest.

John shoved him, breaking his gaze and enabling him to turn on his heel and run, John close behind him. And it was John that grabbed his arm and pulled him into the side door of a building, shutting it against the creeping fog.

"I don't know what that was, but it's dangerous," muttered John.

"Yes, quite," said Sherlock, moving away from the door, though the scent of river water seemed to be fading. He took a breath and looked at John. "It didn't affect you as strongly as me."

John shrugged. "I'm not quite human anymore."

"And you're also a soldier, I'm sure that makes a difference, too." Sherlock moved over to a window and peered through it, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. 

John scrubbed a hand through his hair. "So, do we just wait for the fog to clear? Someone else might be getting hurt out there."

Sherlock took a few deep breaths. "Let's go back out," he said.

John nodded and checked his gun, then opened the door.

The fog was gone, the street as empty and plain as if nothing unusual had ever happened. Sherlock and John shared a look and John led the way back to where they'd seen the creature. But there was no sign that anything had been there.

John put his gun away. "I don't think we're going to find anything else tonight. Let's just go home."

Sherlock walked over to where the figure had been standing. He frowned and crouched down, picking up an old roman coin that looked like it had spent the last several centuries submerged. "Yes."


	3. Chapter 3

It was the small hours of the morning when they returned to the flat. Sherlock was surprised when John followed him to his room, but he wasn't going to argue either. It felt like perhaps John wanted to be sure of his safety after what they'd seen that night, but perhaps he simply didn't want to sleep alone. Either way, John laid down on the side closest to the window.

Sherlock lay awake, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of the coin he'd left in his coat pocket. It felt like a reminder and a warning; what they'd seen was real.

Only a few days ago the idea of some creeping monster from the Thames would have seemed beyond ridiculous. And yet how much could change in a short time. And even if it was something from the river, how on earth could they stop it?

As much as he hated the idea, he might need to reach out to Mycroft. He certainly knew far more about these other things than he did.

John whimpered in his sleep. Sherlock rolled onto his side and gently reached out and put a hand on his chest. Nightmares had often haunted John's dreams; he couldn't imagine he slept any better now, after Baskerville.

Pushing away the guilt, Sherlock moved closer to him, trying to give assurances by his presence. He knew he was often a difficult person to live with; it had never mattered before. Or at least, not like this.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock fell into an uneasy sleep, dreams dogged by strange fogs and unearthly shapes at the edges of his vision.

**

Mycroft himself appeared just after breakfast, without Sherlock reaching out to him. Given all that had happened over the last few days it was nearly enough to make Sherlock wonder about his brother's abilities. But likely he knew about the case they were looking into and it was simply that.

Sherlock handed him the coin. "We had an encounter last night," he said, stepping into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

Mycroft turned it over in his hands, giving it a rough date to near London's founding. "What did you see?"

"A shape in the fog," said Sherlock. "And an unusual fog at that."

"It smelled like the river," added John.

Mycroft handed the coin back to Sherlock. "Lestrade said there had been four deaths in the past week."

"Apparently, yes. All the bodies were in very bad shape."

"How do we get the thing back into the river?" asked John, echoing Sherlock's thoughts of the night before. "Or kill it, if we must."

"That's a good question," said Lestrade, appearing in the doorway. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as Lestrade and Mycroft shared a look.

Mycroft reached into his suit and pulled out a piece of paper. "I have a spell that might banish it back to the river, but it's not one I've tried before."

"Is it dangerous?" asked Lestrade moving closer to him.

Mycroft shrugged. "No more than any other."

Sherlock was glad the kettle went off because he had a sudden urge to sit down. Spells? Magic? Strange creatures from the Thames? Werewolves? If he didn't know better he'd think he'd taken some very bad drugs.

John followed him into the kitchen as he fixed tea for the four of them. "It's a lot, I know," he said to Sherlock's thoughts.

"I should be more concerned about how you are doing," said Sherlock.

"I'm fine. Not the first time I've had my life turned upside down in an instant. And at least this time I have you."

Sherlock gave him a smile. John leaned in and kissed his cheek, then took the tea tray from him. "Come on, let's figure out how to defeat this thing."

Blinking a few times, Sherlock followed him back out.

Mycroft and Greg were sitting close together and talking quietly when John and Sherlock came back out. It was probably just as well John was carrying the tea.

Looking up, Mycroft rolled his eyes at the expression on Sherlock's face. He took a cup and sipped it. "I'll need to gather some supplies this afternoon, but I believe we can face this creature tonight."

"I'm coming along," said Lestrade in a tone that brooked no argument.

Mycroft looked at him, but turned his attention back to his tea.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "Where shall we meet, then?"

Mycroft rattled off an address near where they'd been last night. He finished his cuppa and put it down. "I suggest getting some more rest before tonight," he said, getting to his feet and adjusting his umbrella. He looked at Lestrade, who quickly drained his own glass and then followed him out.

"So... how long have they been together?" asked John when the flat was quiet again.

"I've no idea," admitted Sherlock.

John smiled at him. "Well, seems like there's been a lot of things happening lately. I'm going to try and sleep some more."

"I'll join you."

**

Not long after dark, Sherlock and John caught a cab and go out a few blocks from the rendezvous. Lestrade tried to act like he hadn't been sneaking a cigarette while he waited. Sherlock decided not to comment on it, instead looking towards the river as if daring the strange fog to rise.

Mycroft joined them a few minutes later, a bag slung over his shoulder. For once he'd exchanged his suit for a simpler button-up, though he still looked very put together.

Sherlock bit back the snarky comment he was thinking and instead followed Mycroft as he walked towards the river. At the moment everything looked perfectly normal, though Sherlock was aware of a vague sense of anxiety at the back of his mind.

While they waited, Mycroft put his bag down on a bench and started taking things out of it. Sherlock recognized a few of the herbs and other items, but not all of them. And he could see the tension in his brother's shoulders; Mycroft was not fully confident this would work.

Well, they would at least try it, and he wasn't facing down this creature alone. John was armed and probably Lestrade as well, though who knew if bullets would do anything against it.

As Mycroft finished his preparations, the first tendrils of fog started to rise from the river. Lestrade moved closer to him, watching the water, clearly seeking to protect him if he could.

John gave a low growl, barely audible, his own new instincts clearly warning of the approaching danger. Sherlock swallowed and watched the river.

As the fog grew thicker, a shape began to rise. Against his own instincts, Sherlock moved closer to Mycroft, not sure what he could even do, but wanting to support him if he needed it.

Mycroft started chanting something. Sherlock felt cold, as if his very bones were chilled. The fog curled around their bodies, the scent of ancient river filling the air.

Lestrade moved closer to the other side of Mycroft. He worked with the materials he had as the shape solidified before them, glowing faintly in the light of the city.

The figure took a step closer, making a low noise that sounded like the armor of a thousand soldiers marching in step. Mycroft took a step forwards as well, making gestures with his hands as he continued his chant.

Sherlock held his breath, feeling the tension grow between the two of them, wanting to reach out a hand to support Mycroft but not daring to break his concentration.

Suddenly the creature made one more low noise, and then it slipped beneath the waves. Mycroft stumbled and tripped over the low river barrier, pinwheeling for a moment and then falling, just out of their grasp.

John jumped in after him. Lestrade and Sherlock shared a look, then stared at the water, waiting for them to resurface. 

After several interminable heartbeats, they reappeared. Lestrade reached down and helped Mycroft back to safety, John climbing up after him.

Mycroft coughed up river water as Lestrade crouched next to him. John waved off Sherlock's concern and turned to Mycroft, making sure he could breath. Mycroft started to shiver in the cool air.

"Come on, my cars just up the street," said Lestrade.

Sherlock pulled off his coat and put it over Mycroft's shoulders, looking at John. John shook his head, indicating he was fine. Maybe he was more resistant to the cold now, too.

Lestrade jogged ahead while Sherlock and John helped Mycroft, getting him into the front seat and then climbing into the back.

Sherlock took one more look back towards the Thames as Lestrade pulled away, but everything looked perfectly normal. John reached over in the darkness of the car and took Sherlock's hand.


	4. Chapter 4

They rode in silence all the way to Mycroft's place. Mycroft got out under his own power and handed Sherlock back his coat. Lestrade came to his side and took his arm as they headed up the front steps and into the house.

"Let me get you a towel," muttered Sherlock, leading John to the downstairs bathroom while Lestrade took Mycroft upstairs.

"Do you think he did it?" asked John.

"Banished the creature? I don't know. I hope so." Sherlock handed John a towel and went into the kitchen to make some tea and get the emergency cake out of the back of the freezer.

John joined him a few minutes later and they had everything ready to go by the time Lestrade and Mycroft joined them at the table. 

Mycroft reached for the cake. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Sherlock, watching him. He could see Mycroft was drained and tired.

"We'll just stay here for the night, yeah?" said John.

"That would be best, I think," said Lestrade.

It was a testament to his state of mind that Mycroft didn't even put up token resistance.

Sherlock took John's hand. "Come on," he said softly, leaving Lestrade, Mycroft, and the dishes in the kitchen and leading him up the stairs.

"I'm sure Mycroft will be fine," said John.

"Lestrade will take care of him," said Sherlock, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly tired as he pushed open a door and saw the bed.

John pulled him close and kissed him gently. "Let's get some sleep. Hopefully, this will all make a little more sense in the morning."

"I do hope you're right," muttered Sherlock, stripping down before climbing between the sheets.

**

Sherlock woke sometime in the small hours of the morning. John was snoring softly so he slipped out of bed and pulled on a robe that was hanging behind the door.

The house was quiet, save the heavy ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, but as Sherlock slipped down the stairs he could see a light on in the study.

Quietly, he crossed over to it, finding Mycroft sitting at his desk, going through some papers, a drink close at hand.

"You should be resting," said Sherlock.

"So should you," said Mycroft, without looking up.

Sherlock crossed the room and fixed himself a drink. "Do you know what it was?" he asked, looking at the Roman coin now sitting on a corner of the desk.

"I have some ideas," said Mycroft. "A spirit of the river is the nearest I can call it," he said, sitting back and scrubbing his face in his hands.

"And it's gone now?" asked Sherlock.

"It's asleep," sighed Mycroft. "I don't know how to banish it completely."

"So aside from running Britain and freelancing for the CIA you're also practicing witchcraft?" asked Sherlock lightly.

Mycroft sipped his drink and looked out the window. "I became aware of these other things early in my career, and, as it seemed I had a talent for it, I was encouraged to learn. In these times those skills don't come in handy very often, but when they do, they're vital."

"I can imagine," said Sherlock.

Mycroft looked back at him and studied his face for a few long moments, then got up and went to one of his bookshelves. He moved a book and the entire shelf swung open. "Come," he said.

Sherlock left his glass behind as he followed his brother down a narrow flight of stairs to another door. Mycroft punched in a code and opened it. The room contained more books and, in the middle, a skylight that must have lead up to the garden.

"I'll give you a couple of things to read," said Mycroft. "Do return them at some point."

"How much does Lestrade know?" asked Sherlock.

"Enough," said Mycroft, pulling books off the shelf. "I did not tell him about John's condition, it's not my place to do so."

"There's no way to reverse it, is there?"

"No," said Mycroft, turning and handing over two volumes. "But he is adjusting well as he can and your support is paramount. I believe he was worried you wouldn't believe him."

"I know he was," said Sherlock, taking the books. "But John would never lie to me, especially not about something like this."

Mycroft nodded and led the way out of the hidden room, making sure everything was back in its place. Sherlock made a mental note on which book Mycroft had pulled.

Stifling a yawn, Mycroft walked over and threw back the rest of his drink. "Go back to bed, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded and finished his own, turning for the door. He paused at the threshold and looked back at Mycroft. "Thank you," he said softly.

Mycroft couldn't keep the surprise off his face. "You're welcome," he answered.

Sherlock nodded and went out and up the stairs.

**

By the next afternoon, they were back in Baker Street. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa with one of the books with John puttered around in the kitchen. It was quiet and comfortable, just the way it should be. They would still need to figure out a new normal, but it would come to be.

John came over and sat next to him, clearly restless. Sherlock put his book aside and watched him. 

"Are you really okay with all of this? It's not exactly logical."

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps not, but it is nonetheless true. And it doesn't matter what has changed you, I'm here."

John smiled at him and leaned in to kiss him gently. "Learning anything from that book?"

"Quite a few things."

"Tell me?" asked John.

Sherlock opened the book and started reading to him, comfortable and knowing they were truly home in one another.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter and tumblr at merindab


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